


myosotis latifolia

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, in like the most messed up way possible, this is however very much about giles and jenny being important to each other, this is not a calendiles fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25875454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: Years and years ago, the truth would spill out, and Rupert—in his endless romanticism—would take her hands and tell her she only needed him by her side to feel welcome and loved. But it’s been over a decade since they’ve been that close, and those years have created a distance between them just as insurmountable as the distance between them, now, on the steps leading into his lavish gardens.(Rupert Giles is an esteemed member of the Watchers' Council, as well as a happily married father. Jenny Calendar knows that that's never been what he wanted.)
Relationships: Jenny Calendar & Willow Rosenberg, Jenny Calendar/Anya Jenkins, Jenny Calendar/Rupert Giles (past), Rupert Giles/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	myosotis latifolia

**Author's Note:**

> literally i don't even KNOW what i am writing at this point. i have an atla fic in the works, i have a growing-larger-every-day pile of ace attorney wips, and now, apparently, THIS.
> 
> i think a lot of this was inspired by giles and jenny's dynamic in the reboot comics, which is really giving the angstier side of my calendiles brain some excellent food for thought. (read the reboot comics.)

Lillian’s the one who opens the door, all flushed and cheerful in that way that means she’s probably been checking in on her kids before the party really enters full swing. “Jenny _darling,”_ she says, and sweeps Jenny into a hug that’s impossibly motherly and warm. Jenny resents it, resents herself for resenting it, and resents her own emotions for making her resentful at what’s supposed to be a fun international Watchers’ Council gathering. Honestly, she should be jumping for joy that she’s invited—Anya hasn’t been invited _once,_ and has always had to come along as Jenny’s plus one—but it’s hard to do that when Lillian Giles is so damn _nice_ about Jenny’s continued presence, and so damn _trusting_ when it comes to Jenny’s motivations for coming. Were their positions reversed, Jenny wouldn’t be quite as inviting.

Not that Jenny _wants_ their positions to be reversed. But still.

“Lilly!” chirps Anya, worming her way into the hug in a deft maneuver that gets Jenny out of it. A rush of relieved affection distracts Jenny from her tumultuous emotions. _“So_ good to see you! How _are_ the children?”

Lillian pulls back, looking a little bemused. “Oh—Anya!” she says, her smile returning as soon as she sees who it is. “Really, I _am_ sorry that you weren’t officially invited—I talked to Rupert about it and he says he’ll try and do _something_ next year—”

“Save me the Watcher politics, Lils,” says Anya, “Jenny and I are gonna go check out the buffet. I’m _not_ offended,” she adds hastily as Lillian’s face falls, “just _genuinely_ hungry, we literally _just_ got off the train and I totally forgot to pack a snack so I don’t see the point of pretending that you’re all going to invite the former vengeance demon to the Watcher party, you know? Bye!” Before Lillian can intervene, Anya’s tucked her arm neatly into Jenny’s and swept them both away, hurrying them down the hall and towards the grand ballroom where the rest of the party is waiting.

“You didn’t have to do that,” says Jenny.

Anya makes a face. “Please. You’re easier to read than ancient Sumerian.”

“You can read ancient Sumerian?”

“What I’m _saying,”_ says Anya with exaggerated patience, “is that you don’t like Rupert _or_ Lillian _or_ their extremely functional marriage—”

 _“It’s not a functional marriage,”_ says Jenny through her teeth.

“Just because it doesn’t fit _your_ definition of a functional marriage doesn’t mean it’s working for _them,”_ Anya points out. “You need to stop being so judgmental.”

“It’s just—he’s—”

“It’s been over a decade, Jen. Are you still letting him get to you?”

 _“Yes!”_ says Jenny. “Why _wouldn’t_ I? I have my _own life_ outside this bullshit, I think I’m entitled to spend one day a year losing my shit if I have to be confronted with _Lillian Giles_ and the fact that she’s a _total doormat—”_

“Now _that’s_ unfair,” says Anya, her smile disappearing. “Don’t you remember what you and I talked about the day before Rupert and Lillian’s wedding?”

 _“Which he invited me to,”_ says Jenny, “which you and I _agreed_ was obviously his passive-aggressive way of being a _dick_ about—”

“We _said,”_ says Anya, “that you’re _not_ going to take out your _completely warranted_ anger over Rupert on his _completely lovely_ wife.”

Jenny lets out a huff and falls back against the wall, a few tendrils of hair falling loose from her updo. Carefully, Anya tucks them back into place.

“Am I…interrupting?”

Jenny’s heart flips over.

“Oh, _absolutely,”_ says Anya dryly. “Jenny and I have realized that our true and undying love for each other runs deeper than a thousand oceans and hotter than a thousand suns. What the fuck do you _think_ you’d be interrupting, Rupert?” She steps back, smoothing down Jenny’s hair, and gives Rupert a tight smile. “Good to see you, anyway. It would be nice if you wanted to see _me,_ because if you actually _invited_ me to these things—”

“Watcher politics,” says Rupert. To his credit, he does sound somewhat apologetic. “It _is_ good to see you, you know. _Both_ of you.” He gives Jenny a small, encouraging smile—one of those horribly awful let’s-make-nice smiles that he tries to give her every year. Like her still being secretly mad at him is just this big misunderstanding, one that’ll be cleared up as soon as she lets go of the past and forges forward into this new, wonderful future.

Fuck that. This new future still involves Rupert refusing to take responsibility for his bullshit. Jenny’s not interested in a future like that. “Yeah, good to see you too,” she says, giving him her brightest, most casual smile. Being amiable is always made easier by the fact that she _does_ care about Rupert, conflicted as she is. “How are the kids?”

Rupert’s smile softens into something much more easy and warm. “Ana is top of her class in spelling,” he says, “and Thomas is well in the middle of the Terrible Twos. We’ve got one of the Potentials looking after them for the night, but if you’d like to say hello, I’m _sure_ they’d love to see Aunt Jenny.”

The first thing Jenny thinks about when Rupert’s children come up is always that conversation they’d had in Sunnydale, tangled together on the sofa, talking idly and sadly about the future that they wouldn’t be able to have together. _It’s irresponsible, bringing children into the world a Watcher lives in,_ Rupert had said. _And besides which—I don’t know. I can’t see myself as a father. Too much baggage there._

Thomas and Anabel Giles are two of the very big reasons that it’s sometimes hard to look Rupert in the eye.

Anya, who is by this point extremely familiar with Jenny’s internal monologue (largely because she’s usually subjected to it on the train ride over), tugs gently on Jenny’s shoulder. “Hey, should we head in and say hi to the Scoobies?” she asks. “It’s been a little while since we’ve seen them. I wanna see who Xander’s new arm candy is.”

 _“Anya,”_ say Rupert and Jenny at the exact same time, but in very different tones of voice. Rupert’s disapproval contrasts _greatly_ with Jenny’s wheezing giggle, and he directs a _please-don’t-undermine-me_ look towards her. Jenny, surprised that she can still read Rupert’s micro-expressions even after years apart, simply arches an eyebrow in return, turning back to the woman who has supported her through thick and thin. “Don’t say that in front of him,” she says, jerking her head towards the ballroom (which, coincidentally, is also where Rupert is standing). “Might get us kicked out. That or start another Scooby fight, and we _never_ want one of those—”

“Didn’t Willow run out crying a few years ago?” says Anya, who isn’t even trying to sound like she feels bad for assisting in the instigation of that particular fiasco. “What a mess.”

Smiling reluctantly, Jenny tucks her arm into Anya’s again, falling into step with her as they walk past Rupert. He’s looking at her with that same searching expression that he _always_ directs at her, every year—the one that makes something old and miserable tug at her chest.

This is not the way that this is supposed to be. Both of them know that.

* * *

“Ms. Calendar!” sings out Buffy. She’s become surprisingly charitable to Jenny’s presence now that Jenny isn’t dating Rupert, which in turn has made it pretty clear that it took the dissolution of Jenny and Rupert’s relationship for Buffy’s high school grudge to fade. It’s not entirely a good look for Buffy, but Jenny only sees her once a year, so she lets it slide. “And Anya! How’s that San Fran Magic Box treating you?”

“No one calls it San Fran unless they’re a tourist,” Anya informs Buffy.

“The…City by the Bay?”

“That’s _worse.”_

“Buffy, how _are_ you doing?” says Jenny, because Buffy is starting to look like she regrets coming over to say hello to them. They’ve already pretty effectively burned their bridge with Willow—no need to continue their string of disastrous arguments with Buffy. “How’s Dawn?”

This was a mistake. Buffy launches into a long and detailed explanation of Dawn’s decision to major in history and become a Watcher, which means that Jenny literally has to bite the inside of her mouth to keep herself from saying something about Watchers that really _will_ start a fight. Anya, sensing discord, steps up to the plate, supporting Buffy’s story with the appropriate “uh huhs” and “mm hms” needed to keep it going. Her free hand moves to rest over Jenny’s on her other arm.

“—and she thinks she can get herself a Slayer within the next month!” Buffy finishes, beaming. “You should _see_ the work Giles has put into the reformation of the new council, Ms. Calendar. It’s seriously some of the most incredible work I’ve seen.”

“YEP SOUNDS GREAT,” says Jenny, who is struck with her yearly urge to overturn a buffet table.

“Oh, hey!” says Anya suddenly, tugging on Jenny’s arm.

Jenny turns. This is a mistake.

Willow has arrived, looking just as witchy and foreboding as she always does at these gatherings. Though the pictures Jenny sees courtesy of Facebook and Instagram, she knows that this isn’t an accurate depiction of the magic-savvy academic that Willow’s grown into—and knows, somewhat guiltily, that this strange dissonance is her doing. Willow is very clearly doing her best to look as unapproachable as possible, and it’s very clearly Jenny’s fault.

“You two need to talk,” says Anya, which is what she’s been saying every year since Jenny and Willow got into a very ugly, _very_ public screaming match that actually managed to drown out the band. It’s honestly a miracle that Rupert still invites Jenny to these things. “Bury the hatchet.”

“Pretty sure the only place _she_ wants to bury a hatchet is in my back,” says Jenny flatly.

“Wow. Original. Definitely never heard _that_ before in my thousand years on earth—”

“You know Willow’s not _really_ mad at you, right?” says Buffy suddenly.

Turning to Buffy with an expectant expression, Jenny says, “I am _really_ interested to hear how you can back up that statement.”

Buffy hesitates, then says, “Look, I— _I_ got over you and Giles, and pretty much everyone else did, but—”

“This isn’t anything I don’t know,” says Jenny thinly. “Willow made her position pretty clear three years ago, and _I_ told her to keep her fucking mouth _shut._ I don’t see why you’re trying to justify—”

Anya elbows Jenny very hard in the side. “What Jenny _means,”_ she says, giving Jenny a warning look, “is that she and Willow had an argument over that exact point three years ago. If Willow still feels that same way, it isn’t very likely that she’s going to get along all that well with Jenny.”

Buffy, who had begun to look somewhat indignant on behalf of Willow, relaxes somewhat. With a sad laugh, she says, “Fair point, I guess. I just—” She shrugs, trying to smile. “Ms. Calendar, you were really important to Giles—and you’re _still_ really important to _all_ of us, myself included. I really hope that at _some_ point you and Willow can mend fences.”

Outside of these gatherings, Buffy hasn’t made any effort to reach out to Jenny in the last ten years. Not that Jenny feels snubbed—she hasn’t reached out to _Buffy,_ after all—but the blatant falseness of Buffy’s words leaves a sour taste in Jenny’s mouth. “Of course,” she says, and tries to smile. _God,_ she hates these parties.

Anya says something to Buffy—the cadence of it sounds like a hasty excuse, though Jenny can’t entirely make out the words—and tugs Jenny off to the side, angling them so that she’s blocking the rest of the party. “Jenny,” she’s saying. “Jenny. Hey. Come on, honey, we _don’t_ have to be here if it’s too hard—”

“I’m _fine,”_ says Jenny. Her eyes sting.

“You _never_ are,” says Anya tiredly, but she says this every year, so Jenny doesn’t really think either of them can count it as a genuine reason to leave. “Look, I-I honestly don’t know why you _do_ this to yourself, and it’s getting really fucking hard to—I mean, god, they don’t even _like_ you here, you _know_ that!”

Jenny does. She just doesn’t care. Compassion or stupidity—whatever it is, it’s always been her strong suit. “I’m going to get some water,” she says, and ducks out before Anya can do anything about it, hurrying down the half-lit hallway and towards the luxurious gardens.

Jenny has been to the Giles manor a handful of times. Once every year for these parties, of course, plus whenever she’s in town and can’t come up with a good enough reason to dodge the Gileses and their happy fucking family. It’s enough times for her to know the layout of the first floor of the manor, right down to the fact that during Council parties, absolutely _no_ one is out in the garden. Sometimes people sneak out here for a romantic tryst, but they’re usually too distracted to notice Jenny slipping tactfully back inside—and Anya _still_ hasn’t figured out that this is where Jenny goes when she needs some space from the party, so it’s not like she’ll be interrupted by more efforts to get her out of the manor.

Tonight, the stars are out, a rare break from the oppressive fog that usually blankets the manor at this time of night. Jenny sits down on the smooth marble steps and tilts her head back, letting her hair tumble loose from the bobby pins that have been just barely holding it in place. With an exhausted sigh, she sets to picking them out.

“Aunt Jenny?”

 _God,_ Jenny is in no condition to deal with this shit. Plastering on her best smile, she turns to face Anabel Giles. “Hey, honey,” she says. “Don’t you think you should be inside with Sera and your brother? Sera’s probably worried sick about you.”

“Sera thinks I’m in the library,” says Anabel, sitting down on the steps next to Jenny. “Are you all right?”

“Hmm?”

“You always look so sad,” says Anabel, pressing a half-wilted flower bashfully into Jenny’s hand. “Mum says that if someone’s sad, it’s important to ask _why,_ and then to try and help. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Anabel doesn’t look a lot like Rupert. Her dark red hair, her round face, her button nose—that’s all Lillian, and in every light but moonlight, it’s impossible to tell that she’s Rupert Giles’s daughter. But Anabel inherited Rupert’s eyes, and his way of looking at you and _through_ you until you feel _seen_ in a way you maybe don’t want to be, and the reminder that this little girl is never going to be anything but a casual acquaintance to Jenny sometimes hurts more than she can take.

Maybe Rupert and Jenny were never supposed to work out. Maybe they weren’t supposed to get married and live in happily wedded bliss. That’s never been what cut Jenny to the bone. What hurts more than anything is seeing Rupert meticulously walk the path of least resistance, marrying an endlessly supportive wife and producing two perfect Giles heirs and recreating the Council in a way that’s strikingly similar to what it always was. No Cruciamentums, sure—but no happy, long-lived Slayers, either, and _no_ world where Rupert Giles gets to be anything other than what the Watchers’ Council made him into.

This wonderful little girl is never going to know her father as the man Jenny got to see. _That’s_ what hurts about looking into those bright green eyes. “Being sad isn’t always a bad thing,” says Jenny, because it’s the only true thing she can think to give one of the two last remaining fragments of Rupert Giles. “I think I’ll be okay eventually. I just need to give it some time.”

“But I’ve known you _forever_ and you’ve _always_ been sad,” says Anabel doubtfully. “Are you _sure_ that time is what you need?”

Maybe it’s not. That’s not something you tell a little kid, though. “What kind of flower is this?” says Jenny instead.

Anabel smiles, sweet and bright. “A forget-me-not!” she says. “Dad showed me how to press them a few days ago, but I had a few extra left.”

Looking down at the flower, Jenny smiles a little too. “Thanks, sweetie,” she says. “I _do_ think you should go inside, though. I’m sure your parents would be pretty stressed out if they knew you were running around outside after dark.”

Anabel’s eyes widen. “You _won’t_ tell them, will you?”

Jenny pretends to consider the question. Finally, she drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, beckoning Anabel closer. “Y’know what, I’m going to cut you a deal. You go in and stay with Sera and your brother for the _rest_ of the night, and I keep your little escapades on the down-low, how’s that?”

Gratefully, Anabel nods, already jumping to her feet and hurrying back indoors. “Thank you, Aunt Jenny!” she calls over her shoulder as the door swings shut, leaving Jenny—again—alone with her thoughts.

“That was well-played.”

Jenny jumps. It takes her a moment to collect herself, and another moment to look towards the figure moving quietly towards her position on the steps. “Oh,” she says, thanking every imaginable deity for the fact that the dim lamps are almost definitely hiding her blush. “Hey, Rupert.”

Rupert sits down where his daughter had—a few steps down from Jenny, a respectable distance away, looking up at her with a kind of shy confusion. For the second time that night, Jenny is struck by how much Anabel resembles him. “I wasn’t expecting to find you out here,” he said, “though I suppose I’ve solved the mystery of ‘Where Does Jenny Run off to Within the First Ten Minutes of the Party.’ I’ve had some money riding on that for the last few years.” He grins. “Lillian owes me seventy-five quid.”

“Making bets with your wife?” Jenny laughs. “That definitely adds some spice to the marriage.”

“Just so.” Rupert leans back against the steps, his smile lingering for a little while longer. “But Jenny, why _are_ you out here? You’re missing out on quite a lovely soiree.”

The honest answer to that question isn’t one that Jenny knows how to tell him. Years and years ago, the truth would spill out, and Rupert—in his endless romanticism—would take her hands and tell her she only needed him by her side to feel welcome and loved. But it’s been over a decade since they’ve been that close, and those years have created a distance between them just as insurmountable as the distance between them, now, on the steps leading into his lavish gardens.

“I don’t belong here,” Jenny says instead. She smiles cheerfully, like it’s some kind of joke that they’re both in on; she’s gotten relatively good at that.

“Is this about—”

“It’s not about Lillian, Rupert, she’s lovely,” says Jenny immediately, because no amount of time will lessen her ability to quickly shut down Rupert’s ridiculous assumptions. “You know if I had a problem with Lillian, I wouldn’t have showed up. I’m good at that.”

“Having problems?”

“Not showing up.”

They both laugh again, but it’s no longer as comfortable or easy. “Then what is it?” says Rupert. “I know we haven’t been very close in the last few years—”

“Oh, longer than that,” says Jenny before she can stop herself.

Rupert blinks. Something hurt enters his gaze. “I—”

“You’ve changed,” says Jenny. She keeps her voice light, turns her eyes towards the gardens. “So have I. It’s been a long time since we were close in the way that we used to be. I’m okay with it, most days, but coming back here…” She trails off, drawing in an unsteady breath. “It’s. Harder for me than I like to admit.”

It’s a long time before Rupert speaks again—long enough that Jenny thinks they might stay in this miserable stasis forever. But then he sighs, sounding much more like the man Jenny remembers, and says in a tone of voice that she hasn’t heard since Sunnydale, “You changed my life, Jenny. You made me so much more than the man I might have become. Though our lives have diverged in a way that feels…almost inevitable, now…” Now it’s his turn to trail off. After a little while, he says, “It feels…wrong. That you should feel so unwelcome in my company. Especially after—”

“Isn’t that how it usually works with exes?”

“Not with _us,”_ says Rupert, and the fierce note to his voice is enough to startle Jenny into looking at him. “We were _more_ than that.”

For a terrifying, charged moment, the years fall away, and all that exists are those wonderfully searching green eyes—locked on hers like she’s the only thing in the world. But then the moment is gone, and Rupert is married, and Jenny says, “We _were.”_

Though the fire in his eyes has faded to a half-ashamed ember, Rupert doesn’t seem dissuaded. “I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, still looking at her like she needs puzzling out. “I don’t _understand,”_ he says.

Jenny exhales. Looking down at her knees, she says, “I am always gonna love you, Rupert. Okay? _Always._ I’m not _in_ love with you, that’s over, but…if you came out here because you’re afraid I’m only coming to these parties out of obligation, I’m really, really not.” This is the hardest part for her to say, but she feels like he’s owed _some_ truth—even if it’s one that she’s only barely admitted to herself, and _never_ to anyone else. “I’m glad you’re happy,” she says. “I’m glad you’ve found some way to be happy with yourself and the choices you’ve made. After the kind of life you had, I can’t be anything _but_ happy that you’re—”

“Jenny, I—” There’s a strange note to Rupert’s voice. Surprised, Jenny looks up, and realizes that now it’s _him_ who seems unable to meet _her_ eyes. “Don’t labor any longer under such clear misapprehensions,” he says, clipped and tired. “I know what I’ve become. I’m not deluding myself. I have you to thank for that.”

This is so far from what Jenny had expected from him that she finds herself speechless. Struggling for words, she closes her fingers around the flower, looking at Rupert— _really_ looking at him—for the first time in at least a decade. He _does_ look happy—happy with his wife, happy with his kids—but there’s a strange, pervasive shadow over his happiness that she suddenly can’t understand how she missed.

“I am not the man I wanted to be,” says Rupert. “I made choices that I will spend the rest of my life regretting.” He looks directly at Jenny, then, and now the years really _have_ fallen away. It’s just him and her outside a party, him with the Council hanging over his head, her with the knowledge that this is a man she is never going to get to have all the way. “I took the easy way out. I turned away from the one thing I wanted most in the world.”

Jenny can barely breathe. Is he saying—he _can’t_ be saying—

“I am happy _enough,”_ says Rupert. “I have a wife who understands the duties I must perform, children who will grow up safe and protected, and I am a well-respected member of an esteemed Council that has existed for hundreds of years. I am _everything_ that I wanted before I met you.” His smile collapses in the middle. “Had I not met you, I would never have had any of this—and had I met you, I suppose I would never have wanted for anything else.”

A decade ago, this unabashed honesty from both of them would have been enough to bridge the gap. Rupert with Lillian still just a sweet Council assiciate, Jenny flying in from San Francisco with badly-hidden feelings bubbling up every time her eyes landed on her ex—they’d be kissing, now, or drawing each other into a tight hug. Swearing they’d never let go each other again.

But Rupert isn’t telling her any of this because he plans on making a change, and this is why Jenny can’t help but hate him when their eyes meet again. He doesn’t want this, and both of them _know_ it—but he’s never been brave enough to step away. “I am always gonna love you,” she says again, twisting the knife one last time. “You know that.”

Rupert nods, eyes wet. “I do,” he says.

Jenny lets her eyes drop again, opening her hand to look down at Anabel’s forget-me-not. Without looking at him, she says, “I doubt Lillian would be happy if she knew how you really felt.”

Rupert is silent again. Jenny’s getting pretty used to this. “Lillian…understands me,” he finally says. “I am very lucky to have a life partner who does.”

Jenny’s fingers close into a fist around the flower, nails digging in. “I guess I deserved that,” she says, trying to laugh.

“You misunderstand what I’m getting at,” says Rupert quietly. “Lillian understands me, but she understands me well enough to accustom herself to the choices I make. At no point in time has she expressed an opinion outside her continued steadfast support of the Council and the work I do, simply because she loves me and refuses to believe that I have anything but the Slayers’ best interests at heart.”

“You do,” says Jenny, because he always has.

“I do,” Rupert agrees. “But there are…nuances to the situation that I don’t think Lillian is willing to examine.”

“And you are?”

Rupert exhales. “No, I am not,” he says, “but I at least _consciously_ turn a blind eye.”

Jenny looks up at him again and almost smiles. She wants to tell him she loves him—in a real way, this time—but that’ll just hurt them _both,_ somehow. “You’re a good husband and a good dad,” she says. “You’re the best Watcher any Council could ask for.”

“I know,” says Rupert. His smile is very hollow. “But I think there is a world where I was more than that.”

* * *

Willow catches Jenny on the way back in, a few minutes after Rupert’s left and Jenny’s deemed it safe to enter the hall again without arousing suspicion. It apparently wasn’t safe _enough,_ though, because one moment Jenny’s sneaking through the back door and the next she’s being hauled sideways into the kitchen, Willow’s eyes flashing with a mixture of vindication and anger.

“Willow,” says Jenny, and because she’s still thinking about the tired misery in Rupert’s eyes, her voice breaks in the middle. She’d thought she would feel some kind of triumphant glee in her realization that Rupert’s _not_ happy with the shitty decisions he’s made, but all she feels is _awful._ “Just—leave me alone, okay? All you’re doing is making me feel worse, and I just— _can’t.”_

Something in Willow’s expression trembles. Her hand drops from Jenny’s arm. Without a word, she backs out of the room, leaving Jenny alone in the kitchen to mull over what was easily the weirdest interaction she’s had at this party thus far.

“Jenny?”

Oh, great. Jenny looks up with her best smile as Lillian steps into the room, still wearing her fancy pearls and sweeping evening gown that perfectly matches Rupert’s tux. “Hey, Lillian,” she says. “Sorry about ditching, I just…” She waves a hand. “Needed some air, I guess. You know how it goes.”

“I…do.” Lillian shuts the door behind them, then crosses the room, leaning heavily against one of the counters before fishing a cigarette out of her pocketbook. “Do you smoke?”

This is absolutely not how Jenny saw her night going. At this point, the _only_ thing she wants to do is somehow escape this situation and get Anya to get them both back to the hotel, but it feels weird and wrong to have had such an intimate conversation with Rupert and then duck out of an opportunity to talk to his wife.

_You’re not going to take out your completely warranted anger over Rupert on his completely lovely wife._

Granted, Anya had thought the whole thing was a functional marriage, so Jenny doesn’t _have_ to listen to her—but Anya is pretty much the only person from Sunnydale that Jenny still loves with an uncomplicated happiness, so Jenny doesn’t _want_ to ignore her. Too many people have ignored Anya’s excellent advice.

“Yeah,” says Jenny, and takes the offered cigarette, nodding in thanks as Lillian lights it. _“Can_ you smoke in the kitchen?”

“Window’s open,” says Lillian with a small shrug. “It’s a distasteful habit, but I allow myself today to indulge.” She almost smiles. “It’s not too hard to get lost in the mix at a party like this—a fact that I’m fairly certain you’ve taken advantage of more than once.”

Jenny winces, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know it’s not exactly polite—”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” says Lillian, smiling slightly. “I tend to do the same thing. Rupert has a habit of getting distracted—either by his Sunnydale colleagues or his work friends—and it doesn’t exactly leave all that much room for a Watcher’s wife.” She laughs tiredly. “This isn’t my _favorite_ day of the year, I’ll admit.”

The question bubbles up before Jenny can stop it. “Then what is?”

Lillian tilts her head back, her smile flat and strange. “It isn’t really a _day,”_ she says, “but—Jenny, you were in love with him, you’ll know more than anyone. He’s not—” She exhales. “He’s never going to be _really_ mine, you know,” she says. “Not over everything else. He needs a woman who can understand that she’ll never be first in his heart, and I…” She trails off. “What he’s doing,” she says, “what he does to keep our family safe—it’s more than I could ever have asked for from a husband. It would be terribly unfair of me to feel entitled to more than what he’s able to give me.”

“You deserve better than that,” says Jenny.

Something changes in Lillian’s expression as she looks over at Jenny. “You see, that’s the difference between you and me,” she says, not unkindly. “You wanted him to be something he was never capable of being.” A little more firmly, she adds, “And I’ll _not_ have you disparaging him, Jenny. He’s a good man, and you truly don’t know him the way I do.”

The unspoken _you’re not his wife_ hangs between them, thick like the cigarette smoke. Jenny makes no attempt to refute it. Because it’s the only truth she can give Lillian, she says, “He deserves someone who knows him, and you’re putting in the hard work that I couldn’t. I honestly hope that you two are genuinely happy.”

“We are,” says Lillian. Her face has relaxed, but the same sadness that pervaded Jenny’s conversation with Rupert shadows her smile as well. “Truly. As happy as we can be.”

* * *

“Jenny?”

The timidity to Willow’s voice is what gets Jenny to turn. Lillian’s still in the kitchen, having lit another cigarette, and Jenny had been steeling herself for a return to the party before Willow’s shy interjection had gotten her attention. As she takes in the woman in front of her, she’s reminded of the girl she used to patiently teach; Willow is twisting her hands apprehensively in the same way she used to when she was fifteen.

“Willow,” says Jenny.

Willow swallows, hard. “You were out with Giles in the garden,” she says.

“Yeah,” says Jenny.

“He’s still in love with you,” says Willow. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” says Jenny, and realizes—unpleasantly—that this has always been the truth.

“I just—” There are tears in Willow’s eyes. “You have no idea how much I wanted you two to be happy,” she says. _“Both_ of you. And he _was_ happy with you, you know? I know he’s still happy, now, but—you know he would have been happier with you.”

“Yeah,” says Jenny, because there’s not a lot that she can say to that. “But maybe I wasn’t happy with him.”

Willow sniffles, then nods. “I think I get that now,” she says.

Tears spring to Jenny’s own eyes, but they’re not for the same reason as Willow. Within the angry, bitter witch is still the brave little sophomore Jenny loves, and she’s facing her mistakes with humility and compassion. Rupert is never going to be able to do that, and neither is Lillian, and it _hurts_ to think about two wonderful people stagnating in a cheerfully unhappy marriage—but some of that hurt is taken away by the fact that that’s never going to be Willow.

“Ms. C-Calendar?”

With a shaky smile, Jenny moves forward and gathers Willow into a clumsy hug. “Buffy said you wanted to make things right,” she says into Willow’s hair, grateful for the opportunity to hide her face. “I guess I didn’t really believe her.”

“I _didn’t,”_ says Willow, sniffling again. She pulls back to get another look at Jenny, managing a weakly apologetic smile. “Up until I saw you come in from the garden, my plan was still to be mad at you until you admitted that you and Giles were still in love with each other. But then I _saw_ you, and—” Her smile trembles. “I never wanted to make you feel bad,” she says. “I thought that you were just being stubborn and pretending that you didn’t make a really big mistake. I didn’t know you were hurting this whole time—”

This sounds uncomfortably familiar.

“—and I _definitely_ didn’t know that it wasn’t even _you_ who had messed up.”

 _This_ doesn’t. “Wait,” says Jenny. “You… _don’t_ think I messed up?”

Willow tilts her head, smiling a little in that playfully knowing way that brings Jenny’s deep affection for her to the forefront. “Remember when Tara and I broke up for a few years?” she says. “Back when I was in college and using magic for literally everything? She was the one who broke stuff off with me, but for a _really_ long time, it was just…easier to blame _her._ For not trying enough, for not _being_ there, for not being the amazingly supportive doormat of a girlfriend that I wanted to pretend I didn’t want.”

Jenny suddenly sees where this is going.

“And I went to that magical rehab coven up in Devon,” says Willow, “and I sorted my stuff out, and I started to realize that expecting your girlfriend to just agree with _all_ of your decisions isn’t fair to her _or_ to you.” Her smile softens. “It takes someone _really_ strong and brave to draw that line, Ms. Calendar. Tara’s always been like that, and…I guess I didn’t really realize until now that that’s what you did too.”

Jenny lets out a soft, sobbing breath and has to hug Willow again, because she _definitely_ can’t let Willow see her crying. Maybe a few years later, when they’ve built back all the time they missed—but not now. Not today. Today, she’s just going to savor the feeling of having this back.

* * *

Jenny and Anya leave early—not too early to be rude, but still early enough that a handful of guests have retired to the Giles sitting room for more casual conversation. A very long time ago, Jenny and Anya would be a part of the late-night chosen few, laughing along with the Scoobies at a plethora of treasured memories. Now, however, Anya helps Jenny into her jacket and they leave the manor, heading towards the train station a short distance away.

“How was it?” Anya asks.

Jenny swallows, lacing her fingers with Anya’s. “I don’t want to go back next year,” she says.

“Oh yeah?” says Anya.

The pronouncement doesn’t seem to surprise her, which in turn surprises _Jenny._ Every single year, Anya’s pressed her— _are you sure you want to be here, Jenny? Are you sure this is really what you want?—_ and she’d expected her acquiescence to be a more shocking and dramatic moment. But Anya keeps walking, eyes trained on the road as though Jenny had simply suggested they pick up a snack at the train station. “You don’t seem too shocked,” says Jenny, still a little startled.

Anya almost smiles. “You’re miserable every time you go there,” she says. “I knew that _someday_ you’d decide you didn’t want to be hung up on him anymore.”

“Yeah, but—how did you know that it was _today?”_

Anya squeezes Jenny’s hand—a tiny heartbeat. “I don’t really _know_ anything outside of loving you,” she says. “This is the worst day of the year for you, and I’m not gonna make you feel _worse_ by asking a thousand and one questions about the decisions you’re making. You need someone here to support you.”

“By badgering the hell out of me until I finally get to the _right_ decision?”

Anya laughs, tugging gently on Jenny’s hand. Their shoulders bump together. “Sometimes.”

They walk in silence for a little while longer. It’s the first comfortable silence that Jenny’s had all night. Years and years ago, she walked with Rupert like this down a desolate stretch of concrete, both of them dusty from the Master’s death and brimming with exhausted adrenaline from the Bronze. “Hey, Anya?” she says.

“Mm?”

There’s so much that Jenny wants to say to Anya. None of it translates into an understandable language—but Anya knows languages long dead, and so Jenny knows she’ll understand this. “Lillian said that Rupert was never going to be really _hers,”_ she says. “The same way that Rupert was never really _mine,_ you know? She got used to it, and she settled, and I think she’s going to spend the rest of her life on scraps of a guy whose heart is always gonna be somewhere else.”

Anya’s eyes are still trained on the road, but her hand has tightened around Jenny’s, her thumb stroking the side of Jenny’s hand as if trying to anchor Jenny _there._

“My heart isn’t anywhere it’s not supposed to be,” says Jenny. “I think when I love someone as much as I do Rupert, it…hurts to see him hurting. But that doesn’t mean I’m wishing I was in Lillian’s shoes right now. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to be where she is.”

Anya still isn’t saying anything.

“I am never gonna want to be anywhere more than where I am right now,” says Jenny, and _does_ stop walking, looking intently up at Anya to see if she’s gotten the message.

With a frustrated exhalation, Anya tugs impatiently on Jenny’s hand. “Look, I love you _too,_ but can we have this conversation on the train?” she says. “It shows up in fifteen minutes, and the next train is some kind of _deluxe_ train, which means you have to pay _extra_ for some stupid reason. Capitalism is a _plague_ when it’s personally inconveniencing my relationship to my money.”

But Jenny sees the waver to Anya’s annoyed expression, and feels the way Anya’s hand is shaking. Standing on tiptoe, she presses a tender kiss to Anya’s cheek, smiling shyly when she pulls away. “I love you, Anya,” she says. “Thank you for being here for me tonight.”

“Jesus H. _Christ,_ Calendar,” says Anya, and _yanks_ on Jenny’s hand, pulling them both forward. Laughing, Jenny tumbles after her, feeling impossibly, wonderfully _light._


End file.
